You may know him from the posts of this blog as the Italian-American Man-Servant. Or perhaps you know him by the names UJP, Uncle Grump, or even Little Johnny. Emma calls him Papa. I call him Dad. And now everyone in the blogosphere will recognize him as the special guest contributor of this entry.

Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for John Picetti.

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Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll, Cars and Soccer Moms

Wow, this sounds pretty interesting, sex, drugs, rock & roll and that other stuff, but this is just a cheap attempt to lure you into the article about an epiphany that has just happened to me. It’s funny how you can go your whole life being something, and then in the honk of a horn, your life has spun 179°.

As far back as I can recall I have always considered my self a cool guy. There was never a need to try to be cool because I just was. I’ll admit that I wasn’t the smartest, the most handsome, the most athletic, the (oh how I hate this one) tallest, BUT I always was the coolest. Later in life this coolness factor manifested itself in my choice of motor vehicles. I won’t bore you with a litany of all the cars I have owned, but there have been a few great (again cool) examples of the automobiles industries finest. My very first car was a 1960 Falcon station wagon, ok, not cool to the average eye, but it did haul my drums, and for dates, because of the seats folding down… enough said. A few years later I owned a baby blue 1962 Chevy Impala. The word COOL does not really do this beauty justice. The first new car we owned (I’m married now) was a 1968 Ford Mustang. It felt like we were driving around on wet streets in a new car commercial. Black exterior, black interior, long, and shining, the 2005 Buick is the type of car Frank Costello would be seen riding around in if he were alive today, that’s how cool our current car is.

Now, lets get to heart of the matter. No, I don’t officially own this mode of transportation, but I do drive it an awful lot. An awful lot. Do you have your seat belts on, because we are now tooling around the greater bay area in a 2007 Dodge van. That’s right fun seekers, a van, and it’s red too. The reason for this updated Wally wagon is to transport the two most precious pieces of cargo that I could possible have, my son and his daughter. The time Jason and I spend in the Dodge is very special to me, it’s our alone time, the time we can laugh and cry and share minutes together in our own private world. This is a world only a father and son could share, be it a ice cream cone after a little league baseball game, here put this money in your pocket and don’t tell your mother, and I am so, so very sorry this has happened to you.

So now due to the car I drive, I have become a soccer mom, and I wouldn’t change it for a second. At least I’m a cool soccer mom.

Twenty-three years ago during the summer after my junior year, I was invited to represent my beloved Capuchino High School at the annual Boys State conference in Sacramento. Attended by a pair of male delegates from every high school in California, we descended upon the Sac State campus with the express purpose of immersing ourselves head-first into an investigation and exploration of government at the state level for five glorious days.

Unfortunately for the powers-that-were who thought that sending me was a good idea, I am sorry to inform you that this delegate from sunny San Bruno has absolutely no recollection of participating in anything government related at all. I do, however, remember these things:

My first taste of freedom away from the parental units. College couldn’t get here fast enough for me.

They have a Burger King on campus, OMG.

They have college women on campus, too. OMG, OMG, OMG.

Which group of friends could I talk in to going back up to Sac State the next week for Girls State. (We, being Tim, Dan, Mick, and me, were on our way until Mick’s car broke down in Pinole).

The one thing I remember most about that week was a book I was reading. It was a collection of comic strips by future Simpsons creator Matt Groening called Life is Hell. I enjoyed it so much that I went out and scored his other two books Love is Hell and Work is Hell.

Directions: You will be asked to examine a series of photographs. It is your happy task to determine exactly what (tf) is going on in those pictures. The first correct entry in the comments section below will earn a redeemable prize. Special consideration will be given in the form of an equally redeemable prize for the most original, creative, and out-of-the-box entry as well. Sorry Emma, but members of my immediate family and employees of ALS Boy, Inc are ineligible to participate.

Driving home from the East Bay this past Saturday night, we rolled up to the scene of an accident on Industrial Blvd. in Hayward near the on-ramp to Highway 92. In addition to the crumpled-up car on the side of the road, there were at least two police cruisers blocking the street, lots of flares burning red, and a man in a crane repairing a street lamp that was damaged in the accident. Except for the elevated worker in the basket, the crash site was devoid of any significant activity at the time I responded to Fehmeen’s question about what she should do with a nod of my head that said drive forward. We were immediately approached by a uniformed officer who asked us what we thought we were doing. As Fehmeen explained to him that it was all my idea, I vaguely recall Emma saying ‘hi’ three times from her seat in the middle of our van. The policeman then noticed me seat-belted to my wheelchair in the front and said, “Since you’ve got an injured man in there, I’m going to let you go through.” It wasn’t until we were on the incline portion of the San Mateo Bridge did my shit-eating grin subside. Big or small, I love getting away with something.

One of the first things they tell you (over and over again) when you catch ALS is not to lose any weight. They want you to maintain as much of your poundage as possible because once it’s gone, it’s hard to get back. I must have royally pissed them off when I dropped a quick fifteen right out of the gate in the three months between my first and second clinic visits thanks to a no dairy, no wheat, no fruit, no sugar, no carbs, organic meat and vegetable only diet that I was on at the time. Truth be told, I was tippin’ the toledos at about a buck-ninety in those days so the el bees that were lost as a result of spending so much time and money shopping at Whole Paycheck were worth every dire warning and stern reprimand I received.

Once I came to my senses and began eating food for the taste again, my weight plateaued at one seventy-five for the next six month interval. While that was good news in and of itself, it was becoming readily apparent to those around me that I was struggling mightily with feeding myself. Despite my family’s valiant effort to stuff my pie-hole with yummy and carby foodstuffs, I still managed to lose ten pounds by my next clinic visit. This time, in addition to the usual choral arrangement of “Don’t Lose Weight” (sung to the tune of “Three Blind Mice”), they added an extra verse of “Feed Ing Tube” to the already catchy song. We vowed to redouble our efforts at feeding my face and we got the hell outta Dodge for the next four and a half months.

By my next appointment, we at Team ALS Boy felt quite confident that I had not only maintained but actually gained weight. Our optimism eroded the instant we saw the readout on the scale: 152.3. I was down another ten pounds. Despite my protests, there was no recount, no reweigh. I made my concession speech and agreed to get a feeding tube installed at my earliest convenience. They were happy with my decision to go through with the procedure, of course, but I knew in my rather protruding gut that theirs was an ill-gotten victory.

Fast forward five days later to my thrice yearly breathing test at Kaiser. As per usual, protocol dictated a trip to the scale prior to the scheduled examination. Because I was having an impossible time climbing up on the scale under my own power, an alternative method of weight measurement was decided upon. Here are the results:

ALS Boy + power chair ………. 535 lbs

—— MINUS ——

power chair by itself ………….. 372 lbs

—— EQUALS ——

ALS Boy & gut by themselves .. 163 lbs

Either I gained ten pounds in 120 hours or I should have pushed harder for a recount in the clinic that day. Now that I have a modicum of vindication weight-wise, I still want to get the feeding tube. I have big plans for that thing; just don’t tell Fehmeen.